fic: grief
Title: grief
Characters: greg lestrade, john watson
Pairing: none
Rating: pg
Word Count: 1000
Category/Genre: angst, gen, friendship
Spoilers: "The Reichenbach Fall"
Warnings: depression
Author's Notes: Thanks to ImpishTubist on Tumblr for beta reading.
Summary: To his surprise, John isn't the only one grieving and feeling guilt over Sherlock's death.
In the flat, John sat in a chair, staring at the ground. The lights were turned off, just leaving the sun gleaming through the window in the room. He liked the silence. Just himself, a cup of tea, and tears.
Thump. Thump.
John could hear footsteps from the stairwell.
"Ms. Hudson, I'm fine. Really, I just want some privacy right now." John called out towards the doorway.
"To grieve? To drown in a sea of guilt?" A masculine and deep voice echoed through the room.
John's head snapped around to see Lestrade leaning against the door frame. "Detective Inspector?" Eyebrows scrunched in confusion. "What are you doing here?" The doctor asked his voice cracking.
"Please, Greg." He glanced around the flat, and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed harshly, trying to find the words caught in his throat. "I came to offer my condolences."
"Lestrade, you attended the service. You don't need to-" John was at a loss for words when it came to the matter. "Most came awhile ago. I just don't understand. I still need to be alone. It has taken this long for me to just be able to be in the flat. I-" John's voice trembled and his hands shook nervously.
"I think Sherlock's-" Lestrade had to take a deep breath to get the words out. "Sherlock's suicide hit me harder than I think people knew." Lestrade entwined his fingers together and dropped his head to stare at the wood floors. "During his drug use, back when he was using drugs, I would come over. I would stay with him until he came down from his high. There were some dark sides I saw of the man, but I made sure to help him. Most people don't know that. He's my consultant, but most people at the Yard don't think I cared."
"It's been four weeks to the day, Lestrade." Empathy crossed over John's face.
"I just feel so guilty." Lestrade sighed. "I believed in him. I still do. I don't care what he said."
"Take a seat and have some tea." John poured a cup and handed it to Lestrade. "Ms. Hudson took away my gun. I think she's afraid I'll take the plunge too."
"And? Because I'll tell you, I've sure thought about it myself recently."
John's eyes shot up in surprise. "Greg, that's not, I mean why would you have the impulse?"
"It's just, I feel so guilty. I should have done something. With Moriarty, I could have helped. I shouldn't have left you and him, I was his friend." Greg scratched his neck to occupy himself and focus on not breaking.
John just sighed in response. "That bastard. He always had to just go and do everything alone. I always knew one day it would get himself killed, just not- not like this. Why couldn't he let me help? We were friends, best friends, and he left me in the dark." John pounded his fist against the arm rest.
"John, I'm sure Sherlock had a reason. Moriarty probably threatened him with God knows what, but we'll survive. Slowly, we can get through this." Greg reached over and patted John's shoulder, rubbing a comforting circle.
"Who." It was barely audible, almost a whisper. Greg almost didn't hear anything.
"What? Come again?" Lestrade's head tilted in confusion.
"Who." John repeated slightly louder. "There are rumors that Moriarty set up assassins on everyone Sherlock cared about and threatened him. Ms. Hudson, Molly, Mycroft, you, and myself. Jumping was the only way. Sherlock couldn't win the game."
Greg choked on a sob. "I can't believe he did that."
"You know, I met a lot of great men in Afghanistan. They risked everything for their country and I had the highest pleasure of serving alongside them. However, nothing compares to what Sherlock did. People said he was a psychopath and a murder, but that man's heart was just as strong has his brain. How much he cared-I just- fathoming everything he did, it kills me." A tear ran down John's face.
"That's why I quit." Lestrade exclaimed.
"Quit? What?"
"I resigned from the Yard." Greg looked up.
"What? When? Why?" John stared back in disbelief.
"Two weeks ago I resigned. I couldn't take it. The looks people over there gave me because of what they thought about Sherlock were just horrible. They don't know and never will know who he really is. I couldn't stand it."
John just shook his head. "People disgust me. When people recognize me on the streets, their faces of loathing, it makes me want to shoot myself."
Lestrade could feel the anger boiling up within him. He needed to distract himself from the idea. "How's Mycroft doing? Have you spoken to him?"
"We did a couple times a few weeks ago. I haven't since. It ended in a lot of yelling and blaming, so I left it. It's better that way. No one has to worry about the tension and hitting the wrong nerve in conversation."
"Oh, I see. Well, I should probably get going now, but let me tell you this: Sherlock has truly changed my life for the better and I will never forgive myself for his suicide. I am truly sorry for all of this landing on you. I believed in him and I always will." Greg began to stand up, when John grasped his wrist, and looked him straight in the eye.
"Thank you, Lestrade. You have no idea what that means to me. Please, take care of yourself. If you need anything, anything at all, you know where to find me."
"Anytime, John. You know, Sherlock was my consultant, my responsibility. Part of my division, if you will. I'm sorry I didn't help him." And with that, he walked out of the flat.